{"id":32659,"date":"2017-08-05T11:37:01","date_gmt":"2017-08-05T15:37:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/?p=32659"},"modified":"2017-08-05T14:12:19","modified_gmt":"2017-08-05T18:12:19","slug":"back-up","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2017\/08\/back-up\/","title":{"rendered":"Back Up"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>The weight of the suitcase handle pulls on my fingers<br \/>\nlike a child whose question repeats in perpetuity&#8211;<br \/>\n<em>Are we there yet<\/em><\/p>\n<p>I\u2019ve closed our front door so many times and hadn\u2019t noticed<br \/>\nuntil now that the deep wooden thud was our discordant song<br \/>\nspilling down our neighborhood streets<\/p>\n<p>Our first words (excuse me) tripped over<br \/>\nour worst ones (I loathe you) blurring out<br \/>\nour sweetest thoughts (he really loves me) and here<\/p>\n<p>I am, on a sidewalk in October, holding tightly<br \/>\nto my grandfather\u2019s vintage luggage, unable to answer<br \/>\nwhere I\u2019ll be, still perplexed by how this happened<\/p>\n<p>Retrace: the hope we were gifted, wrapped in silver<br \/>\nand lavender paper, each dish fit just so in the cabin<br \/>\nwe couldn\u2019t pass up, tucked as it was into a grove of Douglas firs<\/p>\n<p>Remember: <em>you\u2019re crazy<\/em> was code for I was right<br \/>\nand no that didn\u2019t make me happy and yes I was willing<br \/>\nto look past her but your fist in my temple packed my bags for me<\/p>\n<p>Reverse: the dew slips from a spider\u2019s thread, the strands<br \/>\ncurling back into her abdomen. It is Saturday morning<br \/>\nagain and you are still lying in our bed, reaching for me<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-34706\" src=\"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/ssootcase-200x300.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"200\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/ssootcase-200x300.jpg 200w, https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/ssootcase.jpg 564w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 200px) 100vw, 200px\" \/><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The weight of the suitcase handle pulls on my fingers like a child whose question repeats in perpetuity&#8211; Are we there yet I\u2019ve closed our front door so many times and hadn\u2019t noticed until now that the deep wooden thud was our discordant song spilling&#8230;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":988,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[2225,2223],"class_list":["post-32659","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-half-marathon-poem","tag-poemthree","tag-poetryhalfmarathon2017"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32659","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/988"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=32659"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32659\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":34709,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32659\/revisions\/34709"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=32659"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=32659"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=32659"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}